


Monster Mash

by artificialsleeping



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Zombie Apocalypse, F/M, Fluff, end of the world angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-29
Updated: 2015-11-02
Packaged: 2018-04-28 17:18:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5098874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/artificialsleeping/pseuds/artificialsleeping
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If she closes her eyes she can almost pretend that they are somewhere else, in another world that hasn’t crumbled and fallen apart around them. But the look on his face is like warm water and embers all at once, sharp and tender at the same time, and it’s beautiful, she thinks. So she keeps her eyes open, and she lets it cut her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Rise If You're Sleeping

**Author's Note:**

> This is just a standalone drabble for now, but I might end up adding a few more bits and pieces. (Rating is to be safe, since any continuation will probably be more graphic.) Happy Halloween!

They are trapped in a woodshed that’s seen better days, huddled against the sturdiest part of the walls they can find, and listening to the dead pass outside. 

Her breath is coming heavy, and she forces it to even out into something quieter, forces her panicked grip on her gun to relax just a little, enough that she won’t accidentally shoot one of them in the leg. That would be bad. There is still too much adrenaline coursing through her to feel any pain yet, but she knows that the gash she tore open on her knee is going to hurt like hell in about ten minutes. Her crouched stance is shaky as she watches her own blood pool in the dirt and listens to the walkers stumble through the brush and garble scraping, animalistic sounds out of their mouths.

Solas has set down his weapon (he dropped his walking stick in their haste, but he has a gun, and probably a knife somewhere) and is rifling through his pack, ripping a packet of gauze open with his teeth when his hands shake too much. Then he is pressing bandages to her bloody, open wound, applying force, and shushing her when she almost cries out. It stings.

“Quiet,” the whisper fans over her cheek, they are huddled so close. “I don’t think they saw us.”

She hopes not. The woods probably afforded them enough cover, but the noise of their desperate sprint had certainly drawn the walkers in the right direction. They are passing by their shelter; she can see the shadows of their bodies blocking the shafts of light coming through the boards of the woodshed. One brushes up against it as it goes, a wet thump, and they both tense as it stumbles, rotting hands dragging against the wood, and then continues on.

“So much for our nice little hike,” she breathes, barely audible, closing her eyes and still trying to slow her panting breaths. 

“And you wanted to come out here on your own,” he murmurs back pointedly, earning a dirty look from his companion. He is out of breath too, but he’s gaining his composure quickly.

“Two of us are hardly better off. There must be hundreds of them.” She shivers as his hand skates over her thigh; he is cutting away her pant leg so that he can properly fasten a bandage around her knee. His touches are perfunctory and quick, and she looks at the blood smudged on his fingers, her blood.

“You’ll need help walking back, though.” There is a furrow in between his eyebrows, a little line that appears whenever he is worried, she thinks. His hand is resting lightly on the finished dressing, the other going back to his gun, and he is looking warily at the walls of the shed. 

“I think we’re ok,” she whispers, watching his face, and says his name when he doesn’t respond. “Solas.”

He offers her a tight smile of reassurance, and his hand moves quickly off of her knee. “We may as well sit, this might take awhile.”

They settle on the floor of the shed, close in the small space, covered in dirt and now her blood. When her breathing calms and the pain starts to set in, she lets her head fall on his shoulder, exhausted. She is hungry and tired and the air is starting to go cold as the sun retreats behind the trees. And she knows that Solas likes his space, likes to sit a little away from the campfire when everyone else is telling stories and huddling under blankets, always cleaning his gun or carving little patterns into his walking stick, always quiet. But they’re in a goddamn woodshed together and she can’t stop playing on repeat in her head the moment she had tangled her legs in a bunch of chicken wire, ripping open her knee and tumbling face first into the dirt, and Solas had been on her in seconds, less than seconds, prying open the mess of wires and hauling her to her feet. She can’t stop thinking about his desperate grip around her waist and the actual look of terror on his face. 

He is still and silent, and she can smell him with her nose pressed into the crook of his shoulder. He smells like campfire smoke and grass and something clean, like rain. He seems tense, but that probably has something to do with the horde of dead surrounding them, separated by only a rickety shed.

“Thanks,” she says into his shirt, her eyes shut, listening to his breathing and her own. “For back there.”

He nods, she can feel it, and she also feels a touch, like his hand ghosting over her hair, before it pulls away. “They’re moving away from the camp, at least,” he offers, voice thick and quiet.

“They might have passed by it, though. Or through it.” Her stomach curls unpleasantly at the thought.

“Cole was on lookout, they would have had enough warning.” That was true. The camp was more in the open; the others would have had time to lay low in the trucks and the RV. They would be fine. 

She isn’t sure how long they sit there, and as the light gets dimmer and it gets colder, they curl into one another. They lean against each other heavily, her head on his shoulder and his chin pressed into her hair, still holding their weapons but relaxing, bit by bit, as the sounds of the walkers grow more sparse, the herd thinning out as it passed. Her injured leg is stretched out between them, and Solas’ free hand is tracing the edge of her bandage. She thinks he may be looking down at the spot of blood that has seeped through it. 

She’s about to say something like ‘It’s fine, it doesn’t hurt’ when a walker gets caught up on their shed, startling them. Solas is half crouched in an instant, a knife in his hand, and they watch dead hands go straight through a section of rotting wood. A bloody face is almost visible through a hole in the boards, and adrenaline spikes through her. She is getting her feet under her and biting through the pain; the walker is looking at them and reaching now, a horrible sound tearing from its throat, and they can’t let it draw any attention-

Solas’ knife goes through its eye in a precise thrust, pinning it to the wood. It falls silent, slumps when the knife withdraws. She shudders at the wet sound; the smell will never not make her a little dizzy. Solas hovers over her, vibrating with tension as they wait for more, but the moans and growls outside keep getting more and more distant. 

“We need to get back before it’s completely dark,” she says, looking up at his face. 

He looks fierce, feral, a few specks of gore on his cheeks and a bloody knife in his white knuckled grip. He nods, wipes his blade, puts it away, and then reaches out to her with gentle hands to help her up. When they are standing there, faces inches apart and warm puffs of breath filling the air between them, he presses a hand to her hair, and then to her cheek. His thumb brushes crusted mud from her skin, traces her markings, and the contact feels impossibly warm. Her breath catches, and her eyes feel glued to his.

“Are you alright?” he asks her seriously, expression deep-set with something somber and on edge.

“Yes,” she croaks back, and her mouth feels like it’s full of wool. It’s probably a lie; she is cold and hungry and probably in need of stitches, but he is so warm and she has been stealing glances at him and trying to get him to talk to her for weeks, since he showed up out of the blue, and now he is standing six inches from her and cradling her face. She cannot stop herself from angling up and kissing him, a heated catch of lips on lips, brief and agonizing. 

When she pulls back, rocking on her heels and wincing at the weight on her knee, he is staring. He actually looks dumbfounded, like someone slapped him across the face for no reason, and her stomach drops. 

“I’m sorry,” she mumbles, horrified, mind racing because she’s fucked it up, she wasn’t thinking-

When she tries to turn away she feels his hand grip her arm and feels the other curl into her hair, and he drags her back to him and kisses her like he is inches from death. 

Her hands go to his chest and she gasps into the sensation of his mouth over hers. Their parted lips are slightly chapped and dry, but when he kisses her again, pulling away for just the barest breath, she can feel saliva on her bottom lip. The third and fourth time are longer presses, messier, ragged, and then he presses his forehead against hers, both of them breathing harshly.

“Wow,” she says after a heated moment, voice wavering. She’s pretty sure the look on her face is stupid, because he actually starts laughing. It’s the first time she’s heard more than a chuckle from him, and the sound is a hiccupping, choked thing that evens out into something deeper and resonating. It sounds halfway between happiness and disbelief. She wants to bath in that sound, wants to sit in it for hours, and she smiles at him, giggling back breathlessly.  
His hands frame her jaw and he tucks his chin in, brushing his lips over hers again, and the tenderness in the touch makes her shake. 

If she closes her eyes she can almost pretend that they are somewhere else, in another world that hasn’t crumbled and fallen apart around them. Where they are more than animals trying to stay alive.

But the look on his face is like warm water and embers all at once, sharp and tender at the same time, and it’s beautiful, she thinks. So she keeps her eyes open, and she lets it cut her, and she thinks that she is so, so far gone


	2. Stay Awake

When they are making their way back to camp and her arm is slung over Solas’ shoulder, they are silent. She steals glances at his profile, looks at the reserved, thoughtful expression on his face as he scans the trees around them. At one point he spots a straggler, and they duck into the brush before it sees them. They crouch, Solas still taking care to support her weight, and they wait for it to pass.

She takes a moment to enjoy their proximity, peaks at him from the corner of her eye, but then distantly reminds herself that now is probably not a good time to be making eyes at him, kiss or no. They had to be vigilant, especially with her injury slowing them down. They had to make it back to camp in one piece. He looks back at her, long and serious.

She’s not sure what to make of that expression.

As they’re retracing their steps, following the markers they had placed earlier before being ambushed, Solas finds his walking stick, a long and intricately carved staff. He steadies her before he bends to pick it up, keeping a hand on the small of her back, and then he gives it to her, so that it will be easier for her to walk.

“Thanks,” she murmurs, and has to clear her throat, sure that she is blushing. Between his support and the walking stick, they move along at a faster pace.

She wants to say something about the kiss, wants to stop and kiss him again, actually. Instead she focuses on the pain in her leg and says nothing. It is nearly dark when they make it back to camp.

The others are visibly relieved to see them return; Cassandra rushes to help her sit, immediately asking brisk questions about her injury, and Cole is suddenly at her side with an open, steaming can of soup.

They both look like hell, muddy and tired, and she welcomes the heat of the low burning fire, but watches Solas trudge toward the group’s cleaning station (a cooler of water, a stool, and a cup).

“I am fine,” she can hear him say curtly when Cole pesters him with a second can of soup. He looks exhausted. She watches him clean the blood from his hands and then his face.

“We were worried,” Cassandra tells her, and the sentiment is echoed by the others who huddle around the fire with her. Dorian and Bull have blankets for her, and Varric and Sera are hovering with more food. Vivienne looks unaffected, but examines her dressing with a critical eye and prompts her to prop her leg so she can get a better look.

“Solas said it may need stitches,” she tells Vivienne reluctantly. They’re low on medical supplies.

She does, in fact, need stitches. Eight of them, and she manages to convince Vivienne and Cassandra that she only needs half the amount of local anesthetic they try to give her. She grits her teeth and doesn’t look at Vivienne’s elegant, long-fingered hands as they shove a needle through her skin. She looks at Sera, who distracts her with an absurd tale about cutting the power at a college party when she was younger.

Afterwards she feels dizzy and a little sick, and takes the pain medication she’s offered.

“Drink more water,” Vivienne’s voice is severe, and the woman glides away with her supplies like a tall, stern wraith.  
She drinks more water.

Solas takes first watch that night. Cassandra tries to tell him to rest, in light of what happened, but he tersely informs her that he is quite fine, thank you.

When the others are bedding down in the trucks and tents, she steels herself and climbs up onto the roof of the RV where he is sitting, leaving her crutches in the grass below.  
He blinks at her from his lawn chair, looking a little sleepy in his surprise.

“Do you mind if I sit with you?” She falters a bit, her resolve shaking, lingering at the top of the ladder and wondering if she should say never mind, climb back down, and retreat to her shared tent. Maybe he’s regretting what happened. Maybe that was why he had kept away all evening.

But she watches a tentative warmth bloom on his face, and she watches the way that he smiles at her like he can’t help it, and her heart seems to get caught in her throat. She’s used to him looking so _serious_ , grim, and now he looks almost shy, of all things. Distantly, she wishes that it isn’t so dark; maybe he’s blushing the way she’s sure she is.

“Of course not,” he says softly. “Here-” he starts to get up out of the chair, but she waves him back down hastily, pulling herself all the way up.

“Oh- no, that’s ok. I”m-” she hovers awkwardly for a moment, and then carefully sits with her injured leg extended, facing him. She has to angle her head up a bit, but that’s fine. “This way I’m not blocking your view. You’re watching for walkers, remember?” she teased lightly, hands fidgeting in her lap.

He huffed a laugh, leaning forward on the edge of the lawn chair and resting his elbows on his knees, casting his eyes out around the camp. “I remember.”

They are silent for a time, as she tries to gather what she wants to says, and he seems to be waiting. The line of his shoulders looks tense and hunched, anticipatory.

“About be-”

“You-”

They speak at the same time, abrupt, cutting one another off, and she laughs out of sheer nerves. A touch of anxiety is vibrating through her, and she clasps her hands together tightly to get them to stay still. “Sorry.”

“No,” he’s looking at her now, a searching expression on his face. His eyes flit down to her hands, to her shoulders when she shivers. He takes the blanket that’s slung over the back of his chair and for a moment looks like he is going to extend it towards her. Then he shakes it, unfurling the folds, and drapes it around her. His hands brush hers as she grabs the edges, and he pulls away quickly, clutches his knees, sits straight. “Go ahead.”

She sucks in a breath, clutches the blanket tighter around herself; it is warm from his body, where he must have been leaning against it. “I don’t want to forget what happened.” She goes for candid, straightforward, and steels herself for whatever his reaction will be. “You… you make me feel good. Amazing. And there’s… very little to feel good about anymore.”

His lips are parted and he is staring at her with something heavy, something that makes her heart pound. He swallows, and his sounds rough when he says, “You don’t know anything about me.”

It’s true. She knows his name, knows that he can fight and fire a gun, knows that he must have gone through hell to get here. They all have.

“I know what I feel. And you don’t have to tell me anything, if you don’t want to. None of us are who we were, anymore.”

“Aren’t we?” His eyes cut away, expression shuttered. The short distance between them feels like a mile, and she reaches up, puts a hand over one of his. It brings his gaze back to her, and he seems to reflexively clutch her hand in return, lacing their fingers together tightly.

She smiles at their hands, at her hand in his, a feeling like hope exploding in her chest.

“We all had to change,” she whispers. “We all had to do things we’re not proud of. I’m more interested in…” she swallows, and meets his eyes, and she sees that look again, sharp and tender. One of the first things she ever thought about him was that he looked like shards of glass. He knows how to cut and kill, but sometimes he seems shattered, like he is trying not to leave pieces of himself everywhere, carrying them close to himself, protective. He doesn’t seem shattered now, bowed towards her in confidence, holding her hand hard enough to hurt. He looks solid, like weathered stone. “I’m more interested in who you are when you’re with me.”

He ducks towards her the second the words are out of her, pulling her hand against his chest, over his heart, and kisses her. He is getting good at stealing the breath right out of her, she thinks, and feels her nervous energy disperse and build into something else.

“So am I,” he says against her mouth, forehead against hers, “But I want you to know things about me. And I want to know you.” The words are hushed like a secret. Every new shade of his voice and his face is like uncovering something miraculous. He is so different like this, so much more than she has pictured and imagined since first meeting him.

“Then tell me something you want me to know.” She is grinning like a fool, and leans forward helplessly to punctuate her words with another kiss, brief and heated. The hand that isn’t clutched in his comes up to touch his face, feeling the steady slope of his jaw and the faint stubble there. She wonders what he looks like with more facial hair, or with any hair at all.

“I used to paint,” he is smiling too, an impossibly sweet curve that makes her kiss him again. He gets her to linger this time, catching a hand in her hair, teasing her with a hint of teeth that makes her gasp in to his mouth.

“What did you paint?” she asks breathlessly when he lets her pull back far enough.

“Murals.”

“Wow,” she blinks, tries to picture a brush in his hands, plaster on his clothes. “You were an artist?” He has hands that might have been beautiful and unmarked before, long and elegant fingers. Now they are usually dirty, and often bloodied.

“It was a hobby. I was a biologist.” His fingers are running through her hair, distracting, and she hums a contented sound.

“You know how to fight, though.”

“I learned quickly, after. You, though…”

“I’m Dalish, I knew how to hunt. And I taught mixed martial arts in Denerim.” That makes him grin.

“You were much more prepared for the apocalypse than I,” he says lightly, and she can’t stop looking at the smirking slant of his lips. She laughs helplessly, because it’s a terrible joke and there’s nothing funny about any of this, but sometimes black humor is the only kind they can muster.

“You should get some sleep,” he whispers to her, his hold on her hand softening into a caress. “You need to heal.”

For a moment she feels like a teenage girl at the end of a date, standing on the doorstep and wanting desperately for the night to never end. “I need to kiss you more,” she murmurs, unable to feel embarrassment, pouting a little.

He looks surprised and delighted at the same time, and she shivers when his hand rubs circles at the base of her neck. “I’m supposed to be watching for walkers, remember?” he echoes her words from before, and sounds reluctant. The night is quiet, save for the distant chirp of insects, and there is nothing in sight.

“We’ll be on the road again tomorrow,” she says ruefully, looking down. “We may not find ourselves alone for awhile.”

“We will,” he assures her, and there’s that quiet smirk again, a mischievous quirk that she had no idea existed before today. “I promise you.”

She sighs against him when they kiss goodnight, and feels the heat of something dark and sweet in the pit of her stomach, feels it still when she is in her bedroll later, Sera snoring away beside her and Cassandra sleeping quietly.

She feels warm and full of something hopeful that hurts, too. This isn’t the kind of world where good people win in the end and get what they want, because they are not running from anything evil. They are only running from death. And the way that the others look at her like she is someone to be followed feels heavy and wrong, because she knows that none of them, especially her, are more than scared children. But the way that Solas looks at her feels like being alive again, like she can feel the things she used to feel. She wants to hold onto that.

She falls asleep, and doesn’t dream.


End file.
